


A Burning Bridge

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Polyamory, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Battle of Hogwarts, and strong friendships, ayyyy threesomes, messy relationships, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: Halle Potter wishes she'd known it would end this way. If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have tumbled after them, laughing and clutching their hands warmly, towards an end that was bitter and cold.------connected moments, before and after.





	1. [1] one year post battle for hogwarts

_one year post battle for hogwarts_

* * *

So here they are, George and Halle, stood in the greenhouse at Hogwarts.

 

Outside, the rain pours down, drumming against the enchanted glass panes, little raindrop shadows dotting the space below.

 

George, brittle and gentle, angry and tender, lovely George with his warm brown irises and freckles that scatter his cheeks. Their hands are entwined, fingers laced and palms pushed against each other. His eyes watch her hungrily. They follow down the line of her neck, the curves of her breasts, the muscle in her thighs and then flick up to linger at her lips.

 

It’s a weekend. Halle is supposed to be meeting Professor McGonagall. George is supposed to be at the shop.

 

But here they are.

 

He lifts a hand towards her cheek, trailing a finger over her brow bone feather light and cups her jaw, fissions of warmth blooming where he touches. She licks her lips.

 

“We shouldn’t keep doing this.” He breathes, even as he leans down to meet her. His mouth is soft and pliant and warm, and she wants to kiss him breathless until his toes curl.

 

His other hand flutters down her spine and stops at the small of her back, and Halle trembles.

 

In turn, she reaches up to pull him close, hands in his hair until there is no more space between them, chest to chest, rib to rib. His knee slips between hers until there is no space between them at all.

She peppers tender kisses along his jawline, nips at the column of his neck, she wants to rush. She wants to have him fast and rough and desperate…and yet, she pretends like she has all the time in the world. As if it’s just languid kissing and the passing of breath to breath.

 

George looks beautiful. A rose flush crawling up his neck, as if she’s fourteen to his fifteen and swapping kisses behind Mr Weasley’s shed over summer hols. He smells like whiskey now, peaty and earthy, and heady smoke. It’s different now, but it still feels like coming home.

 

She sighs into his mouth, as he finally relaxes. His arms wrap around her and –

 

A chime rings through the air.

 

In her arms, George freezes. And then he’s shoving her away hard enough that she lands on her back on the hard floor. In another time, he might have rushed to her aid, or teased her for being clumsy; in another time, there would be another boy here with them, intertwined.

 

He lunges for his discarded jacket and whips out his softly glowing mirror.

 

“…Hello.” He says as it activates.

 

From her place on the floor, she can hear Angelina’s laugh. “Hullo!” His fiancée parrots back.

 

George’s face breaks out into a fond smile.

 

Halle looks away.


	2. [2] mid-august 1993, summer before third year

_set the summer after the events of in the chamber of secrets_

* * *

 

It's the summer before fourth year and Fred is sitting across the table from a disgruntled Halle. She scowls at anyone that so much as looks at her and twirls her spoon through her bowl of oats.

If he's honest, Fred has never noticed Halle Potter properly. Yes, they've met, and exchanged a few words but she's Ron's mate, not his. He only notices her properly when she's there, drenched in blood and sweat, holding Ginny's pale hand in Dumbledore's office, a slim black book in her other hand.

No matter where he looks now, his eyes always find her.

She catches him staring of course, perceptive she is, their ickle Halle.

"What?" She snaps, pushing back a tumble of black curls from her face.

Oh she's no Celestina Warbeck, but there's something fascinating and intimidating about the anger flashing through her eyes bright and the smooth column of her neck against her uncontrollable hair.

He laughs, "Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, ickle Halle-kins!" He singsongs.

She rolls her eyes at him, but her ears go red as his hair and her shoulders relax.

"Shut up, Fred."

"It's George!" He replies automatically, even as his twin approaches the table.

Halle isn't even looking at them, her gaze drifting to where Ron is shovelling food into his gob like Dumbledore himself had ordered it so. "No, it isn't." She says absently.

Fred's wide eyes meet George's in the dim light of the Leaky.


	3. [3] early-august 1993, summer before third year

_set after Aunt Marge has been blown up and the Minister allows our hero to spend the last few weeks in Diagon Alley._

* * *

 

Halle's third summer after learning about magic is almost uneventful. No one rescues her with a flying car. No one orders her to do chores. No one laughs and calls her a freak.

Barring the small incident of blowing up Aunt Marge, and weeks before that with the Dursley's, it's Halle's favourite summer yet.

The Minister of Magic might have been a completely idiot, but at least he had booked her a room at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the summer. She spends the first few days attempting to do nothing and lazing around in her room. She reads the paper, does the crossword that loops and swerves on the page like a fat snake, dodging her quill tip. She takes long baths and eats three full meals, every single day. She tries to do her hair differently, spending a whole afternoon trying to make a massive braid made of tiny braids of hair. It's fun, she finds. Doing nothing and being lazy is fun.

But Halle is bored.

"Oh, dearie!" The mirror above the sink coos one morning, to her shock. "You really need some more sun!"

Halle scowls in return. "I didn't know you could talk."

"Yes, well, I don't usually, unless someone asks for my fashion advice," Here, the blasted thing tuts at her. "…but your style is atrocious! I simply had to intervene!"

If possible, Halle's frown deepens. "You're a rude mirror, did you know?" She deadpans back.

"W-well, I never!" The thing splutters.

But she is bored, Halle concedes, and so she does leave her room that day. Not because the mirror said so, obviously. She finds the hairclip Lavender sent her for Christmas and fusses with her hair until it's angled just so, and clips it in place so no one sees her scar. Then she flips her Hogwarts' robe inside out and wears that over her threadbare hand-me-downs. Ignoring the ridiculous mirror, she double checks she looks like a normal witch, nods decisively and leaves her room, armed with her wand and her pouch of galleons.

She sneaks past the bar and ducks behind a gaggle of girls to avoid Tom the barkeep's eye. The girls look familiar, but Halle pushes down the thought and huddles behind them as they tap the bricks and finally she enters Diagon Alley.

She makes an obligatory trip to Gringotts first and stuffs several handfuls of galleons into her pouch until it looks fit to burst. The goblin with her stares at the bag with consternation, before heaving a put-upon sigh and offering her a Gringott-issued money pouch with extension charms and anti-theft runes – "…for a fee, of course."

So, Halle negotiates for a  _good_ fee, of course.

At first, it's so very tempting to buy everything she sets her eyes upon. That very first summer, Hagrid had accompanied her and they had only really bought her school supplies before leaving. The second summer, she had arrived by Floo and misplaced in Knockturn Alley. By the time she'd found the Weasley's again she had already cut into a good hour or so of their shopping time and besides, Ron's not so subtle glances to her bulging coin purse had quite put her off buying anything not on the school list.

So, this is really the first chance she's had to really browse the shops and stalls. Her first stop is Fortescue's for a breakfast of berries, rainbow egg waffles, vanilla ice cream and a tall cool glass of peach and pumpkin iced tea. The last time her ice cream had been chocolate with a sprinkling of nuts, slowly melting over a fantastical tale of magic, parents that loved her and the tale of the Girl-Who-Lived.

She savours her ice cream this time, and it tastes sweet.

When her plate is clear and her bill paid, she jumps off her seat and wanders back into the Diagon. It's a little busier now that it's mid-morning, and so she spends her time darting between crowds thoroughly exploring the place.


	4. [4] summer of 1992

_set the summer after the philosopher's stone_

* * *

 

Halle Potter's first kiss is horrible. She is not quite twelve and dressed in a pair of Dudley's old shorts and his orange polo-neck that had baked beans stains in, no matter how many times it goes through the wash. She is sweaty from running and her chest hurts from exertion.

"G'on Piers!" Dudley's gang jeers. "Get her!" They laugh.

They've cornered her into a dead end alley, round the side of the chapel where the bins are sandwiched between the wall and the prickly holly bushes. The place smells of funky foods. Dudley's gang have gotten sharper in the year she's been away at Hogwarts. There's a new boy, brown haired and blue eyed with a smattering of freckles around his nose. He looks like the type of boy she sees on the telly, the ads where the good boy is looking to buy cool stationary from the supermarket and gets perfect As on his homework.

"What are you waiting for!?" The mousey-haired new boy cackles, face twisted. The other boys follow his lead, crowing triumphantly as Piers makes his way forwards, a little grin on his face, ears pink. She's pressed against a wall, as far away as she can get, and it won't be enough.

Behind Piers, Dudley doesn't meet her eye, instead scowling at the reaction of his usual flunkies to the new boy's lead.

"Hey, Potter," Piers smirks, as he walks closer and closer.

Halle has no idea what he's trying to do, but like  _heck_ she'll let him do it.

She's nearly chest to chest with him, before she strikes. She catches him with her knuckles, once, twice – laughter loud in her ears – before he grabs her wrists and pins them to the wall. "Aww, are you scared?" He says.

And then in a lunge, his lips smash into hers, the back of her head hits the wall with a bruising thump, and his lips are slimy and wet and gross and something snakes out between them and tries to push against hers, and –

She shoves him off, chest heaving and punches him as hard as she can. She feels his the fine bones of his nose shift and crack and then she's off, kicking and punching her way out.  _There!_  She spots an opening and darts through the holly bushes, needle pricks scraping her face and arms and legs.

"You're such a bad kisser, you made her run away!"

 _Go!_ She urges herself, the chorus of jeers and taunts close behind.  _Go!_

She spits in the grass behind her and runs.


	5. [5] eight months post battle for hogwarts

_set after the war_

* * *

 

Halle doesn't know why she's there, standing outside a store, admiring the little baby onesie in the window. Angelina that is.

Halle is across the road, just out of Flourish and Blotts. She lifts her head up from the perfectly package book on Defence magic in rural India and there is Angelina Johnson standing outside The Little Star children's shop.

The wind whips her black hair around, a spray of black curls. Angelina is beautiful, dressed casually in a royal blue sundress and light robes. Her face is soft from smiles and laughter and her body athletic and sculpted from years on the quidditch pitch.

Halle watches as she reaches up to touch the glass, looking at the baby outfit with a faint smile. It's an adorable one-piece, with bunnies that yawn and curl up next to sleepy dragons, breathing out lines of 'zzzz'.

Suddenly, their eyes meet in the reflection of the glass. Warm chocolate with wide-eyed green.

_This is the girl he loves._

She averts her eyes, and turns away.

"-alle?" Angelina's voice echoes, somewhere behind her in the crowd. "Halle?"

She keeps walking and pretends she heard nothing.


	6. [6] september 1993, train ride

  _set on the train at the beginning of our hero's third year_

* * *

The ride back to Hogwarts is quiet. The kind of still that makes your skin itch and toes curl. Everyone is looking at her like she might disappear any minute. Hermione glues herself to Halle's side the instant they see each other and doesn't stray for a minute. Ron tenses every time she moves. Ginny sits by the door, looking ready spring Bat-bogey hexes at anyone that dares to pass their compartment and Neville sits to her other side, wand held loosely in his hand, brow furrowed. Luna sits with them, serene as a feather.

So, the twins, and Lee Jordan too, nearly get hexed when they crack the door open.

"Woah!" Lee yelps at the wand, inches from the tip of his nose. "You trying to kill me?" He bats it aside, Ginny looking on furiously.

"Then you should have knocked!" She snaps.

"Calm down, mini-Red," Lee grins and Halle wants to laugh as the angry flush on Ginny's neck rises higher.

The trio shove themselves into the compartment as the enlargement charms start to work, space forming at the end of each bench. Fred flicks the door shut with a kick.

The twins bracket the door and Lee settles himself beside a still blushing Ginny, even though George flicks him on the back of his head.

Halle wants to laugh. Her friends are ridiculous. Each of them looks ready to wrestle Sirius Black to the ground should he choose to enter their compartment, notorious murderer and follower of Voldermort, Azkaban escapee or not. Everyone, even Luna, even Neville, is a steady presence at her back, ready to defend her. She'd pulled them all into horrible situations the past couple of years. They've not turned once, not pronounced her a freak, stuck by her in the worst possible situations. Harry remembers throwing herself through the fire into that final room on the Third floor, thinking very clearly that if whatever she was about to face would kill her – then at least she had gone out knowing that the Dursley's were wrong and that she was capable of love, capable of being loved. Neville who she had not even thought to befriend, standing up to them by the portrait door and then forgiving her later – even though she had hurt him, even though she knew what it was like to be bullied and hurt for doing what you thought was right. Luna, who had flittered and fluttered around their circle, an ever glowing bubble of joy and curiosity, whose first reaction at hearing Parseltongue was  _"oh, maybe you can speak to the_ _Blibbering Humdingers, they're very active this month."_

And the Twins, squabbling over who should take the wheel in the front seats of the Ford Anglia, proclaiming her 'mighty terribleness' in wailing tones and throwing themselves at her feet whilst the school skittered away from the 'mighty Heiress, dumbass, not Heir', for their kid-brother's friend. Fred, who didn't give her a moment's peace whilst they were staying at the Leaky, popping in and out and ruffling her hair, so her eyes wouldn't stray back to the black and white picture of a snarling madman. George who snarked at the adults when they got a little too pushy, who found her staring out the window morosely and nudged her with his shoulder, a kind smile on his face. Lee Jordan who had cornered her with by herself, not looking the slightest bit terrified at being alone with the supposed 'Heir of Slytherin', and told her sharply that he didn't care what rumours were flying around but her  _flying_ better be perfect as usual.

Ginny, who still flinched at the sight of snakes, who she'd shared a room with at the Burrow last summer, enthralled at the idea of being friends with the Girl-Who-Lived and then still being her friend when she realised what came with calling Halle her friend.

And her best-best- _bestest friends._ Hermione, who followed her, even though her worst fear was being expelled, whose curiosity and desire to keep them safe led her to lying cold and frozen and facing a yellow-eyed snake alone. Ron, who was her first friend, loyal and true, backing her up at every turn, falling under a sharp marble blow so she could keep going.

She doesn't even realise she's crying until Ron let's out a horrified, croaking "…Halle!" And everyone's eyes turn to her.

At once, there's a flutter of "oh, no, what's wrong?!" and a "what did you do?" and a helpless "how do we make her stop?" accompanied by a panic flap of arms.

Halle laughs, thick with tears, and they all still. Their compartment is warm and her cheeks feel rosy. "Thanks." She grins, wide and happy, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

They don't understand, but that's okay.

Because she has  _friends._

And she  _loves_ them.

_(Later, she'll crawl over a broken man and shield him from the wraiths swooping above them. And she'll sob at the cold and the cruel, high pitched laughter, and her mother's screams echoing in her ears._ _**"Halle, you are so loved…so loved."** _ _Someone whispers._

_And she'll think back to that moment on the train, back to her friends, to Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Lee Jordan and the Twins, Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood._

_**Yes, I am** _ _– she'll think._

_A silvery dragon explodes into the night sky and_ _**roars.** _ _)_


	7. [7] december 1994, an announcement

_set in fourth year, sometime after the First Task._

* * *

 

_“What?”_

 

Halle is frustratingly busy. You’d think with the First Task out of the way, there would be less chaos around her. That is evidently false. Between trying to keep up with missed assignments and late homework, searching for what the hell the screeching clue from the egg is supposed to be, and avoiding Rita Skeeter, she’s already exhausted enough.

 

And that’s why Halle doesn’t need this.

 

“You are a Hogwarts Champion, no matter the circumstance, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school.”[1] McGonagall stares at her unflinchingly, looking like she wants to pinch the bridge of her nose. “So make sure you get yourself a partner, Miss Potter.”[1]

 

She stares, feeling the flush rise in her cheeks. “…I don’t dance.” She tries again.

 

“I do not care.” McGonagall says, and does pinch the bridge of her nose this time. “It is traditional.”

 

Halle wants to sink into the floor.

 

The professor ignores her. “There will be a notice up in the common room about dance instruction on Friday,” and fixes her a very final sort of glare. “I expect to see your name on it.”

 

The Girl-Who-Lived-to-die-of-embarassment shuffles her way out of the classroom. Is she supposed to ask someone out then? Will George and Fred ask her? They’d never really talked about summer since school had started. Are girls even allowed to ask boys on dates?

 

She blushes, would it be a date?

 

“Erm, Professor,” She says, before she can overthink it. “Can I ask two people?”

 

McGonagall gapes at her incredulously, “Two?” She says, archly.

 

Halle reddens.

 

“Do use your common sense,” The professor casts her a long look. “There are already scandals in the paper about you.”

 

No, then.

 

Halle nods and ducks out into the hallway. Perhaps she’ll just go by herself then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] direct quotes, changed for gender and sentence structure, from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by JK Rowling


	8. [8] january 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometime during our heroine's fourth year at Hogwarts

It’s nice to have something to keep to herself. There’s something lovely about clutching the secret close to her chest and lingering glances at her boys when nobody’s looking. Nothing in her life is ever behind close doors, everyone always pries for more information, always knows more about her than even she does _\- (“Do you remember, when the scar…”//”You look exactly like you do in the books!”//”Yer a witch, Halle!”) –_ so keeping a secret like this is something new.

 

Like holding a butterfly in her palms.

 

But after a while, it starts to ache a little. The novelty of having something solely hers, this thing between her and George and Fred, wears off a little. She’s so happy, but it hurts to keep them a secret.

 

George presses his fingers to her temple, a small grin on his face. “Ok, Halle?”

 

“Mmm,” she nods, curled into his side. They’re sat under a desk in one of the abandoned classrooms on the sixth floor. The stonework under them is cool but not too uncomfortable and they have a blanket stolen from the common room draped around them. “Where’s Fred?” She says sleepily into his chest.

 

He puffs a chuckle into the top of her head, warmly. “Getting us cookies.”

 

Just a little longer, she thinks, just a little longer.


	9. [9] december 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a Christmas before Hogwarts

"Girl!" Aunt Petunia's shriek echoes down the street.  
  
The winter sun is still asleep, the sky dark and clouds grey and heavy with the threat of yet more snow. Already a crisp pristine layer lies thick on the ground and the trees. There's even a fine dusting on the fairy lights strung up around the garden.  
  
It's Christmas eve.  
  
Halle carefully looks away from the window and hurries back to her cupboard. She hastily grabs the brush and dust pan and starts sweeping.  
  
The Dursley's do Christmas better than all their neighbours. Which is why their front and back gardens are decorated in tasteful strings of gold fairy lights and a lush holly wreath hanging on the front door - not a garish Santa statue in sight.  
  
Halle is sure she'll be slaving in the kitchen from now until guests start arriving. Her arms still ache from lifting weighty turkeys and a huge gammon joint from the car yesterday, but there will be no rest, not for a while.  
  
Her aunt comes down just as her mop is being put away, a scowl on her face, curlers still in her hair. There's a thick wad of papers in her hands, recipes for trifles and cheesecakes, the perfect turkey and crispy roast vegetables among the few she can see. She thrusts her wad of recipes at Halle, disdainfully.  
  
"They better turn out exactly as written." She sniffs, crossing her arms over her lilac dressing gown. "I'm taking Dudley for a quick hair appointment at one, the desserts better be done by then." And then she stalks off upstairs.  
  
The rest of the family won't be up until they have to, so Halle delights in some toast and a thin layer of golden marmalade. It's pretty cold in the kitchen, the tiles like sheets of ice beneath her bare feet but there's just something magical about Christmas that even grouchy Halle can't ignore. She even makes herself some warm milk and a dash of honey. It's like heaven on her tongue.  
  
She sets the table in the kitchen, 3 plates and 3 sets of cutlery. She washes two mugs, and a tall glass and places those on the table too. Each member of the family has their different breakfast items.  
  
Aunt Petunia prefers toast, a selection of jams and a cup of tea with one sugar. Uncle Vernon refuses anything other than an English Breakfast any day of the week. And Dudley takes after his father, except his portions are always slathered in an unholy amount of ketchup and BBQ sauce.

She’s eight this year, had drawn eight lines on her cake in the summer dust of the cupboard. Sometimes Halle wishes for people to take her away. It doesn’t have to be family, it doesn’t have to be anyone special, not a celebrity or someone from a book – _anybody will do._ Sometimes she wishes she were younger, so she could start all over again as Halle Potter. Maybe she’d change something by accident, stop her parent’s car crash, or make the Dursley’s nicer. Or maybe when she was younger they gave her less chores? Sometimes, she wished the opposite. That she was older and smarter and prettier, and brave so that she could be the Prime Minister, or a policewoman and go _Ha! Look where I am now! You’ll regret how you treated me!_.

She has a lot of wishes, actually.

Halle wonders if that’s a little selfish – having so many things she wants.

So, she’s careful, when she does make her wishes. As a rule, wishes can only be made on birthdays and Christmas, she’d learnt at school ages ago. Wishes on birthdays were _birthday wishes._ And wishes on Christmas were _Christmas miracles._

Halle has a lot of wishes. Maybe a decent sweater this year, or a more time outside, or better fertiliser for the garden. Better yet, some actual chocolate from Dudley’s advent calendar! But, she only really _wishes_ for three things.

_Someone to take her away._

_Someone to hold her hand._

_Someone to run towards._

She slips on Dudley’s old wellies and trudges outside into the cold morning alone. It’s Christmas but no one is going to be coming to see her. And once her chores are done, and the house perfect, and the food prepared, she and her pitiful little mattress, and threadbare blanket will be up in the draughty attic with the dust and the spiders, like every year – shunted from her cupboard for more important things, like hats and scarves and winter jackets of the arriving guests.

She leaves little brown boot prints, staining the pristine snow. The perfect blanket of white ruined by Halle’s dirty soles. Shovel in hand, she stands at the end of the drive, staring the ugly trail she’d left in her wake, like black smudges ruining crisp white paper.

“It doesn’t mean anything”, she says out loud to the morning, “it doesn’t”.

Still, the thought lingers.


	10. [10] one month post battle for hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George looks wrecked, Halle feels much the same

George is here.

 

The thought resounds in her head, loudly, drowning out everything else. It’s supposed to be a party, a celebration of ‘life and rebuilding’ on the completion of the repairs at school – according to Hermione when the other girl had dragged her through the Floo.

 

George looks…he looks awful. There is no way around it. His skin is palid and sallow, his eyes are dull. He sits in the corner of the room, hunched in a squashy armchair, nursing a bottle of Butterbeer like a lifeline. He looks haunting, sitting there without his twin. She remembers how they had both liked and hated that they’d never been separate from one another – not in their actions, not in their choice of lover. They had probably thought they never would.

 

Separated by death. It makes her stomach churn.

 

The last time she had seen him, it was in the week after the Battle. It had been terrible. He was so quiet, quieter than she had ever seen him, staring listlessly at the blank wall. He never said a word to her the entire time she was there. Did he hate her? She found herself thinking selfishly after she’d left. Did he blame her for what happened? Did he regret that they’d ever started this? And it was selfish to think like that, because George – he was grieving, he needed space, he was hurting and she had to be strong for him. Fred, she had pushed through the pang that came from thinking of him, Fred was gone, George and Halle only had each other now.

 

“Alright, Halle?” She turns away from the sight. Ron is watching her worriedly, eyes flicking between his best friend and the husk of his older brother.

 

Halle nods. If she speaks she might do something stupid.

 

Ron gives her a one-armed hug, warm and solid. In his arms, she watches Angelina cross the room to stand by her _ex?-_ were they exes already?-boyfriend’s side, the other girls handing patting his gently. She thinks of the times she was turned away from the Burrow door with half-hearted platitudes and grief-filled eyes.

 

Are Angelina and George still a thing? Without Fred, are  _they_ still a thing?

 

George doesn’t move from his position, doesn’t look at the other girl. Instead his eyes catch Halle’s in the crowded room and she finds herself breaking away from Ron.

 

It doesn’t matter, she thinks. If he needs me, it doesn’t matter.


	11. [11] november 1991, before the first match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set before the first slytherin vs gryffindor match

At breakfast that morning Halle feels as green as she probably looks. She doesn’t have time to think about what Snape and Filch were up to… She blinks blearily at the reflection of her nauseous looking face swimming on the surface of the gold plate before it’s disrupted by the plop of a fried egg and a clatter of toast.

 

“You need to eat, Halle,” Ron says to her left. “You’re gonna need it later.”

 

“He’s right,” Hermione chimes in. “You’ll need your strength.”

 

Reluctantly, she dips a corner of toast into the orange of the egg yolk and bites into it. It tastes like sawdust in her mouth. “Remind me of the rules again.”

 

“You remembered them all perfectly last night,” Hermione tries.

 

Halle shakes her head. “That was last night. I’ve probably forgotten them all now.”

 

Her mind keeps running blank and her hands won’t stop shaking. How is she supposed to catch the snitch if they don’t stop shaking?

 

“You’ll be fine.” Ron is saying around a spoonful of oats. “You’re good Halle.”

 

She opens her mouth to disagree but finds herself at the end of two pointed stares. “Can you do my hair?” She says instead, cowed, to Hermione.

 

Her bookish friend eyes the tangle of hair above Halle’s head. They’ve bonded over their mutual frizz, she thinks wryly. The other girls in their dorm have manageable hair, and they both definitely do not. “Hmm,” Hermione taps her chin thoughtfully. “You need it away from your face and secured so it doesn’t obscure your sight.”

 

The thought of losing the snitch because she has hair in her eyes makes Halle feel queasy.

 

“A tight French braid?”

 

Ron has lost interest in the hair talk and is turned towards Dean and Seamus sitting down next to him. She doesn’t know the other two that well, all she can recall about them is that Seamus’ dad freaked out about his son having magic. Dean is from London. That doesn’t stop them from turning to her though.

 

“Ready for your first match?” Seamus grins.

 

“No.”

 

“You’ll be fine.” Dean says, simultaneously elbowing his best friend in the ribs.

 

Hermione’s hands feel nice on her scalp, making sure swift movements through her tumble of hair. “Thanks.” Halle says.

 

“You should be eating more than that,” The Irish boy grins, in a rare show of concern, before, “After all Seekers get injured the most in matches.”

 

“Being a chaser is just as dangerous, Finnigan!” Ron barks back.

 

Down the table, Katie’s eyes widen and they both share a nauseous looking stare of weak encouragement. Right, it’s her first match too.

 

Halle takes a deep breath, centres herself. She’s caught the snitch in practice tons of times. Wood’s drilled her in what she needs to do. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.

 

All she has to do is catch the golden snitch. She doesn’t need to coordinate passes or keep the Quaffle in play. She doesn’t need to defend the rings either. See, it’ll be fine.

 

All she has to do is to catch the golden snitch – how hard can that be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She'll regret thinking that later, won't she, when she nearly chokes on the stupid snitch and is nearly cursed off her broom.


	12. [12] november 1995, fifth year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set in fifth year

_ set in one weekend in november of 1995, during the events of the order of the phoenix _

* * *

 

Halle’s cooked many meals in her short life. Back in Surrey, she makes breakfast every morning without fail and helps with the other meals to the point where she can do most of Aunt Petunia’s recipes with her eyes shut.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean she wants to do it blindfolded.

“Ohhh-kay…” Fred says to her left, sounding very much like he’s stifling laughter. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“Merlin, it’s alive!” George squawks over vicious bubbling sounds and clangs coming from the direction of the stove.

It’s only pasta! She’s sure she can feel the bulbous eyes of the nervous Hogwarts elves on the back of her neck.

“I’m taking this off,” her fingers creep up to her face. “You’re going to burn the castle down!”

At once, there are hands around her wrists and Fred’s tie around her eyes tightens. “Don’t even think about it, Halle!”

“No cheating! You said you’d take a handicap!”

“It’s not a competition!” The smell of soot makes her nose wrinkle. “And something's burning!”

A few moments later the blindfold is tugged down and the damage finally comes into view. There are brass pots and pans piled high on the counters, and drowning under an overpowered  _ aguamenti  _ is a black, sooty mixture of clumps and lumps, smoke rising with a hiss.

There’s something stomach churning about failing something as simple as cooking pasta. Cooking is as simple as breathing, the motions are quick and easy, thoughtless. Boiling pasta has very few steps – boil the water, add the pasta, add the salt, stir and wait.

Aunt Petunia would be horrified – she thinks distantly.

She’s stares at the abomination in the pot and then back at her two boys.

And then back to the pot.

“Um…” George winces, “It was a good effort...?”

Fred finally lowers his wand and dips a finger into the black sludge crusting the pan. “I think we could use this in a prank…” and then catches her expression, which must be thunderous by now, as he blinks rapidly and then, “I mean, no, this definitely needs a  _ scourgify _ !”

She’s the one who suggested they come down here, spontaneously. The idea had been to make some brownies, or something sweet, but somehow it had devolved into giving Fred and George a cooking lesson – and then according to their logic, she’d needed a blindfold to put them on an even playing field.

She stares at their faces, which slowly go from sheepish to guilty. Oh merlin, they’d failed at pasta! Pasta!

The longer she draws out the silence, the more nervous they look. Behind them a crowd of House-elves cluster, gaping at the sheer destruction of their lovely kitchen.

Halle feels like laughing until she cries.

Instead, she schools her face and lifts her hands to her hips. “A proper chef has to taste their creation before they serve it.” Completely straight-faced.

Everyone looks aghast. The house-elves probably at the fact she thought of serving the sludge as food. The boys splutter their excuses.

They do end up eating brownies later, courtesy of the house-elves, but not before a lifetime ban from The Kitchens and Winky demanding that ‘you’se be taking Wheezie’s abomination with you’se!” on their way out.

The faces George and Fred make after licking a black spatula full of ‘pasta’ is enough to fuel her  _ Patronus _ for months!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this one feels a little jolting, let me know what you think! X


	13. december 1994, an announcement pt II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a follow up to chp 7 dec 1994

_set december 1994 after mcgonagall's announcement of a yule ball, during the events of the goblet of fire_

* * *

 

Halle tells the boys about the Yule Ball after she leaves McGonagall's rooms. Both of their faces have slowly been looking steadily more amused as she speaks.

"…and she said, that it's been tradition to open the ball since the founding of the Tournament - as if I actually want to be an actual Champion anyways!" She huffs. "And there's no way to get out of it."

"Do you even know how to dance?" George says musingly, leaning back onto his elbows.

Fred waggles his eyebrows. "I know a move, or two."

They both shove him at the same time. Halle feels her cheeks flush and resists the urge to hide her head in the crook of her arm. "I highly doubt that, Forge." She tries, voice as even as she can.

At her other side, George lets out a snort and bursts into peeling laughter.

"Anyway," She says quickly, before she can lose her nerve. "I asked McGonagall if I could take two people to the ball -" Their laughter chokes off into splutters - suddenly, the floor seems very interesting. She rushes on, "and she said no because that was scandalous and so I thought I should just go solo. By myself." It seems like the ideal solution.

Biting her lip, she chances a glance up at them - George at her side, Fred sprawled in front of them. Both their jaws are hanging, eyes wide. And their faces - a bright, vivid fire hydrant red.

Oh, the flush crawls up her neck, burning and hot. Oh no. Again, with the assumptions - they haven't even had a chance to tell her if they plan on even going - let alone asking her! They're in the year above! And this is supposed to be a secret anyways.  _ Dumb! _

"Halle…" Fred's voice breaks as he trails off, sitting upright. He flushes a deeper pink and clears his throat. "Er…"

George swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"I mean, it’s fine if you want to go with other people," She sputters, nails pressing into her palms. "I- I didn't mean -"

It's George who interrupts, an elbow to her arm to cut her off. "Hey, we were just surprised you wanted to go with both of us, we figured you'd just pick one is all."

Fred nods, "We, er, we just didn't want to ask because we didn't really want to know who you…wouldn't pick."

Both boys have pick splotches on their cheeks, swimming amongst their freckles. They're just as nervous as Ron is, she realised with a jolt. Just as nervous as she is. Somehow, because they're a little older, Halle has just assumed they are more confident - they seem confident in nearly everything else they do. In response, she gives them her brightest beam, hoping they understand. It makes a flurry of butterflies rush in the pit of her stomach, to realise that they want to go with her, as much as she wants to go with them.  "But I can't pick…" Her shoulders drop. It was the boys' idea for her to date both of them at once, something she didn't realised people could do until this summer, and it doesn't feel right to … pick one. Like picking out which shirt to wear over the weekend.

The boys exchange glances, noticing her hesitance. Finally, their faces morph into matching mischievous looks, the ones that send everyone else running for cover.

Fred starts, "Just leave it - "

"- up to us!" George finishes.

 


	14. summer 1992, late august

_summer of 1992, late august, before second year begins_

* * *

Halle has spent the whole summer oscillating between anxiousness and anger. Her friends had promised they would write, hadn't they? In the train? By the sixth week in, she's half convinced that she dreamt it up. That the whole of last year is lie that she made because she'd gone a little too loopy in her cupboard. But no, that can't be right, because where had those few months gone? Surely, she can't have dreamt something that amazing up?

A castle on a high rock, over a deep lake. A forest with rolling mists. A great banquet with an enchanted sky above. A terrible face that had burnt in her hands. Friends.

Halle is sure she can't have dreamt up those. Friends, a more fantastical concept than she's ever tried to imagine. She's never had any before, after all, how would she even know to dream them up? It makes her head spin and twist trying to second guess herself, so eventually, late one night she gives up on trying to.

So, if the last year is real, if her friends are real - she flops onto her stomach to stare at the headboard - why haven't they written? Because Halle has. Written that is. There are a bundle of letters under her mattress that have lines and lines of words crossed out - only the final versions make it out with Hedwig, of course. The drafts sit squashed between the bed frame and her lumpy mattress so she can find time to chuck them away later, without prying eyes.

She worries about the letters. She doesn't have any of the fancy wizard parchment that magicals use, not since her trunk's been locked up, so she's had to make do with cheap notepaper. She hopes Ron and Hermione won't mind - they didn't seem like the type - but maybe fancy letter paper fares better when travelling by owl? It had taken her several tries to even get the notepaper to scroll up right to avoid being destroyed by Hedwig's talons. Not to mention the awful British weather.

Hedwig has been doing well, Halle supposes. As well as the bird can living in a place like Privet Drive. She'd sent the bird off ahead from The Owlery before breakfast on the day they had left Hogwarts, and by the time Uncle Vernon had pulled into the driveway, Hedwig was sat in a tree across the road, preening. Probably at having beaten her there. Her owl stays firmly outside the house, perching on the various trees in the neighbourhood. Hedwig seems to enjoy the hunting, but never fails to appear at her barred window when Halle calls - bacon crumbs and owl treats in hand, although she is running low now.

Halle wonders if Ron and Hermione are ignoring the letters she sends. Perhaps, they merely put them aside to read for later, and just forgot about them. It's happened to plenty of people, she's sure. Uncle Vernon had once flown into an apoplectic rage at a forgotten bill - which of course she was blamed for "tidying away" when it had been sitting on the coffee table the whole time. Or maybe, they don't see a need to reply. Were her letters too nosy? Or maybe there was a specific way to write letters? Or maybe she had spent too much of it talking about herself?

God knows how she hates it when the Dursley's do it.

Frowning, she thinks over the contents of the letters she's sent. They were difficult to write. The first is the longest. One to Ron asking how his summer is, how homework is going, and whether he's doing anything exciting. One to Hermione to check how her holiday in France is going, and if she has a muggle telephone Halle can call her on, maybe, once she gets back? She found herself asking a lot of questions, so Halle remembers trying to add a bit about her summer in. To Hermione, she included that horrible kiss from Piers - she shudders at the thought. And to Ron, she included the bit where she had punched him.

She was satisfied when she sent them off, but after several weeks with nothing back, she wasn't so sure. So she wrote another letter to each, asking if they'd heard from each other and if they'd got her previous letter - shorter this time, but they were sent off a little faster that way.

And nothing.

At this point, Halle is almost inclined to believe they've forgotten all about her. It doesn't help that Hedwig is getting grumpy from all the back and forth and keeps making these little owl barks at her every time she comes for treats. It would be cute, if she didn't sound so vicious.

Her summer has been fairly tame in the scale of things. Apart from that one incident with the new boy in Dudley's gang and Piers slobbering on her, she's not encountered them again since. It might have more to do with Aunt Petunia piling her with lists of chores, in vengeance for having not done any for the past nine months, than her luck but Halle's happy to take what she can get.

Her old cupboard has been cleared away and repainted over, now a permanent home to coats and shoes. She misses it a little. Misses running her fingers across old wooden boards, dipping into the smooth divots and scratch marks of the wood there. She misses squinting hard at the panels on the ceiling in the dark to imagine she can make out the coloured letters spelling out her name there in wax crayon.

She misses the privacy.

This room - Dudley's toy room - might be bigger. There might be a proper bed and a useable chest of drawers. There might be old and broken toys in buckets galore to explore to her hearts content, but it's not hers. Nobody looked in the cupboard, nobody tried. She had old drawings hidden in the nooks and crannies down there, broken tin soldiers tucked under the old pile of blankets. A sticker saying "Good Work!" from an old school assignment that she'd kept carefully stuck to a piece of fabric under her pillow.

The Dursley's have probably thrown it away - labelled as trash.

It still feels alien sometimes to sleep without the walls tucked close around her, a cramped and sloping ceiling above her head. She should be happy about the extra space, but she's not quite there yet. It will take some time.

Ron and Hermione are just taking their time, probably. Halle drops a hand over her eyes, pushing away the creeping doubt. Of course, they'll reply. Right.


	15. one month post battle for hogwarts pt ii

_one month after, in celebration of rebuilding the castle_

* * *

 

"Hey," She says, sidling up to the wing-backed armchair once Angelina disappears into the throng. Her voice sounds rough as it exits her mouth.

George looks up from his cradled glass. It's the first time they've spoken since. Everything. His breath comes out in a rush, and a familiar flush shades his ears. "…Halle." It's whispered like he can't believe she's here, voice as hoarse as hers, but she feels the vowels and the shape of it settle and sink into her, bone-deep, like lying in the sunshine in July. "Hi." He says, after a moment.

They don't smile. She doesn't think they're ready to yet, doesn't think she's ready to see George's lips curl up into that pleased grin, or for her to answer him back in kind. The silence stretches.

She's not quite sure what to ask. How have you been - sounds trite and condescending. Without even speaking she already knows the answer to that question. She brushes a lock of hair away from her face and watches George watch her, his blues following her fingers to the shell of her ear.

"Have you - "  _ been sleeping?  _ "Have you tried the treacle tart?" Halle says instead. She shows him the half-eaten slice on her plate. "Your Mum's outdone herself."

He nods slowly, like he's digesting her words and the letters one by one. "Yeah, she…she's been baking since five this morning."

She can see it in her mind's eye. The sleepy figure of George in his favourite nightshirt, stumbling into the kitchen and rubbing his eyes groggily, vivid red hair tousled from sleep and sticking up every which way (not as bad as her's, but then no one's is) as Molly Weasley tugs him bodily into a chair to taste test a dozen sweet treats.

"How have - " He clears his throat, "How has Grimmauld Place been?"

Halle looks at him and then says hesitantly, "Can I sit?" gesturing to a spot on the floor. He nods, his expression unreadable and she thinks, wistfully, it's been a long time since she's thought that as she drops to the ground. Her robes are a deep red, almost maroon in colour and well-fitted but she settles into her cross-legged position ungainly. Ginny can scold her later, she nearly says as she drops her head back to rest against the side of the armrest. She's almost insanely aware of how close she is to George but she takes a breath to speak instead of acknowledging it, or moving away, "It's coming along, I suppose. I had someone from Gringott's come and check the structure and stuff." Her laugh sounds odd to her own ears. She wonders what he makes of it. "It's still standing  and everything, even if the place is fried." She feels self-conscious as she says it although she doesn’t know why. The wards on the old townhouse are in complete disrepair from having been set alight by Fiendfyre. If it wasn't as old and entrenched with magics as it had been, she's not certain that the whole street wouldn't have turned to ash. "I spent a whole week just casting  _ scourgify _ ."

"Kreacher's…"

"Alive still," She concedes, thinking of the crazy house-elf. "But I gave him to Hogwarts until I can get things sorted." The Black family servant has transferred his fanaticism from Regulus to herself, not fully, but the elf definitely buys into that whole Halle Potter rot more than he did before. She's not sure if she prefers being spat at or not. Halle knows Kreacher led house-elves into the Battle, knows that their powerful magics undoubtedly helped keep casualties lower than they could have been, but she still feels that bile rise in her throat sometimes when she sees him.

"That's…good."

She hums her assent and shoves a bite of treacle tart into her mouth and thinks on what to say next. She misses the times where their conversations were easy, no matter the topic.


	16. [16] november 1993

_september 1993, third year_

* * *

 

The girls in her dorm are all Mad.

 

Mad - completely and utterly bonkers.

 

It's their third year and the crazy gin-lady Trelawney has just declared Halle's death in a most "gruesome and horrid fashion" accompanied by a strange bug-eyed stare that she feels all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. They're back in their dorm, sitting around a box of tissues and the largest selection of Honeydukes (because of course Parvati is 'extra' like that) she's ever seen as if they're about to pray to the God of Chocolates to save her soul.

 

"Halleeeeee!" Lavender wails, throwing an arm around her shoulder and dragging her towards their circle. Halle nearly gets a mouthful of the girl's dark hair for her troubles. "I don't want you to dieeeee!"

 

Hermione huffs under her breath, looking very much like she's fed up with the whole thing but Parvati gives her a long doe-eyed stare until she plops down next to them. "I stayed behind after class," The Indian girl nods seriously, patting Lavender on the shoulder with a consoling look, "that's why I was late, and Professor said there might be nothing that can change your fate if you have The Grim."

 

She reaches across the circle to pluck up a chocolate from the open box and drops it into Halle's hands. "We'll be with you until the end." Parvati whispers, and then frowns. "Do you think Ron counts as a 'redheaded man'?"

 

"Honestly!" Hermione bursts out at last, her hair seems to be frizzier than normal, or perhaps Halle is projecting. "You can't seriously believe that rot! Divination has so little actual evidence!" Books, Halle's mind supplies, there is a distinct lack of books. "And you heard Professor McGonagall! She does it every year and no one dies!"

 

"Besides, Ron's hardly a man." Halle adds unhelpfully, chewing on a sticky chocolate toffee. The girls around her, skeptic and fanatics alike wrinkle their noses in agreement. It doesn't quite settle the discussion but they spend the rest of the afternoon snacking on Honeydukes, and braiding hair.

 

Even with the so-called threat hanging over her head, Halle feels bright. It was true she'd been a bit concerned, any mention of death was perfectly concerning after all, but Lavender and Parvati, for all their dramatics, just have a way of making her laugh with their antics. Hermione and Halle aren't as close to the two girls as they are to each other, but it's nice sometimes to forget about the serious things and enjoy a little silliness.

 

"I'm glad we're all roommates," She giggles to Parvati, as Lavender tries to tame Hermione's tresses with a flimsy brush. Her belly is full, her mouth tastes like sugar and chocolate, and her heart is warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm baaaccckkk.   
> Yes, so the hiatus went slightly longer than planned due to life being a bit bonkers, but hey, that's RL. Hope you all enjoy this tiny slice, should be more frequent postings now that the bulk of the stress is over! x


	17. [17] december 1994, an announcement pt iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set a few weeks before the yule ball, december 1994 (contd from an announcement pt i & ii)

The decision comes down to a furious game of rock-paper-scissors in the early hours of a Sunday morning, that Halle isn't privy to. Best of seven (because three was too little, and fifteen too much) - according to Lee, who they recruit as the referee.

 

It's rather flattering - the kind that makes her deliberately keep her lips in a stern line in order to avoid grinning like a loon. Though from the amused glances Hermione and Ron give her, she's not as subtle as she likes to think. 

 

"Hey, Halle -" Fred says, catching her by the sleeve just after breakfast. She slows to a stop, and bites down on her lower lip as 'Mione and Ron carry on walking with not-subtle-enough 'see-you-laters' .

 

He's dressed in a deep navy jumper, cashmere-warm and a pair of scruffy slacks and he seems taller, more grown up, all of a sudden. 

 

"Hi," he grins easily, "Come with me for a sec."

 

It's easy enough to agree with his fingers warm against her wrist. She follows him away from the entrance hall, distantly wondering if George will follow behind in a few minutes.

 

"I like your jumper," Halle blurts, eyes lingering on the way it hangs on his broad Beater's shoulders. 

 

"Thanks," he tugs her towards a window with a bench below it, winter sun a dim blue tone through the glass.

 

They sit down on the bench, side by side, legs touching and rubbing elbows with each other. 

 

"So..." he looks tense for a moment, then a smile splits his face and suddenly he looks like a happy boy all over again. "we've decided we both should get to dance with you - at the ball -" Fred beams, and waggles his ginger eyebrows, "but - if you'll still have me - I have the honour of being your date?"

 

And Fred looks so pleased with himself that Halle can't help but match his excited grin brightly.

 

"Okay-" she says breathlessly.

 

"Yeah?"

 

She nods. "Yup."

 

The flop of relief he does next is sort of adorable, all boneless and warm despite the chill outside. 

 

He's cute.

 

"What about George?" 

 

"Going to ask Angie later. All the other chasers have dates already." Fred hums, "it's not like they don't get along, she's a mate - but he might be a bit sulky about it."

 

It is a bit unfair, she concedes. She'd like to go with both of them and there's a part of her that just wants to throw all the traditional Yule ball etiquettes and worries about reputation out the window. Since when has Halle Potter cared about those things anyways? She should have her boys on each arm and dance the whole night and help them spike the punch and -

 

But George and Fred want to keep it quiet. It doesn't seem like them to do so - be quiet, does it? And it's times like this that Halle is reminded that there are people behind them they have to protect. 

 

A triad isn't a new concept to Wizarding Britain, but it's definitely not a common or spoken about thing anymore. Then the fact that they're twins makes what they have even more scandalous - even though sharing a lover-girlfriend-partner between them should be much less scandalous than the Black family's so many incestuous marriages.

 

Maybe it's something she's missing because she's not Wizard-raised?

 

The Weasley's are already somewhat looked down upon and if keeping everything under wraps for just a little longer ("once we graduate, yeah") means avoiding some undue stress for the people that have treated her like one of their own - then Halle can bite her tongue for a little longer.

 

"I'll have to ask him out on a date to make up for it then." She says instead.


	18. [18] october 1995, fifth year

_set at the start of fifth year, after the events of the goblet of fire._

* * *

 

Everything has been building recently. The pressure mounting in Halle's chest is, at times, both like lead in her veins (heavy and dull and cold) and like a fire that threatens to consume everything. It keeps her stomach churning in the dead of night, like an itch in her gut that refuses to leave her alone.

 

 

The papers call her a liar frequently, filling spread after spread of headlines as the ink bleeds off the pages like blood. Everyday there is a new article, everyday a recap of the same accusation -

 

Crazy.

 

Mad.

 

L I A R.

 

Nobody is listening to her. Nobody wants to. But she has to warn people. There's not enough time, and every single day she spends stuck in stuffy classrooms, reading through Defensive Magical Theory, is another day wasted in preparing against Voldemort - is another day where the snake-faced bastard has time to plan out the mass genocide of her friends, their families, their livelihoods and very way of living. The cut out in her hands wrinkles in her fist, her own crying face on the parchment distorts as the paper crumples, folding the limp silhouette of Cedric's body out of sight. He'd helped her - dropping hints about the prefects bathroom that had Fred and George's hackles rising before they managed to figure out what he meant - they had laughed about it before the Final Task as they waited in the wings. Now, the thought of it only makes her clench her fist tighter.

 

Already she's beginning to forget what he looked like. Did he have a deep laugh? Did he smile a little too wide when happy?

 

What did he look like alive?

 

The only boy she remembers is the one she brought back from the graveyard, eyes blank and staring at the sky.

 

"-alle? Hey, come back to bed, yeah?" A warm hand tugs her back from the window, fingers closing around her hand. They uncurl her fingers with a soft sigh and sidle close, chest pressed against her back.

 

"Please stop looking at those - you know the Prophet's full of shit, Halle."

 

"You're only hurting yourself."

 

She lets their voices wash over her as they lay back down. Their bodies warm and protective on either side and Halle would cry if she had any tears left to do so. They're wrong though. She isn't doing this to hurt herself - she's doing this to remind herself. Each new headline means another day lost.

 

Voldemort is coming. She doesn't know when, but she knows he will come. This ceasefire won't last forever.

 

Their time is running out.

**Author's Note:**

> WIP! but i'm fairly inspired for this one! Let me know if there are any moments you want to see :)


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